


Questioning

by flashwitch



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Five Plus One, TV Canon, not book canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 20:28:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19410793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashwitch/pseuds/flashwitch
Summary: Five times Crowley was asked if it hurt when he fell from heaven, and one time he answered.





	1. 1: 1973

The first time, it was asked not in earnest, but not entirely in jest either. It was asked in an attempt to flirt. Crowley was leaning against a wall, one leg crossed in front of the other, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. The wall he was leaning against was the wall to a very discrete gentleman's club, and he was waiting for a certain someone to emerge. He didn't even notice the man, with his shirt partially unbuttoned and the hickey on his neck, as he wandered over, his eyes lingering in all the best places. 

“Did it hurt?” the man asked, his tone serious, his eyebrow raised. Crowley paused, looking the man up and down. The question had come out of nowhere, and for a second, he was shocked into stillness (unusual for him, he was always fidgeting, always in motion, always moving on). 

“Excuse me?”

“When you fell from heaven?” the man finished, and he was grinning now, either truly confident in that line, or inviting Crowley to share in it's ridiculousness. Crowley thought it was more likely the former than the latter. From the look of him, he was the sort of man who said things like that completely in earnest. Well muscled, with unfortunate hair and wearing that unbuttoned shirt tucked into white trousers. 

Crowley considered several replies. He considered a bland smile, a pat answer, or even flirting back. He liked flirting, most of the time. And if that question had not hit at the centre of him, sending something cold and sharp into him, he probably would have gone with the flirting. 

“Oh, I didn’t fall from heaven, I clawed my way up from hell.” He smiled as he said it, wide and with too many teeth. He looked the man up and down, slowly dragging his eyes from his feet up to his face, allowing a little of his contempt to show. When the man just stood there, clearly not sure how to process that response, Crowley tipped down his sunglasses and winked over the top. The man backed away rather sharply at that point, and Crowley tossed his fag end down onto the ground and blew out the last mouthful of smoke as he watched the man scurry back to where he came from 

Now, Crowley did not do regret. He rejected the very idea of it. What’s past is past, and you can’t do anything about it. This meant that he did not regret asking questions, he did not regret falling, and he did not regret showing his eyes exactly, but later on, he didn’t feel completely comfortable with the impulse. And he did not regret leaving it at that, letting the man go with no real punishment, because the man didn’t know any better. But the instant of fear, of rage, that the question had ignited… it lingered. It was in him deep and it was cold. And he thought maybe he would feel better if he had let it out.


	2. 2: 1989

Crowley was sitting in the corner of a busy pub. It was the sort of place where your shoes stuck to the floor and there was a regularly scheduled brawl every other Friday. He was drinking quietly, keeping to himself. He wasn’t in the mood for flirting or dancing. He was in the mood for skulking in the corner and performing petty acts of evil. He’d been practising his wiles, as Aziraphale always called them. So far, he had made the condom machine and the cigarette machine both give free products at random (indulging vices and promoting lust, very wily); he had increased the salt in all the bar snacks to make people drink more (gluttony, and drunk people do tend to do more evil than sober people); he had also spent a good deal of time listening to other customers conversations and spilling the drinks of those who annoyed him, but that was mostly for fun.

He had reached the bottom of his glass. Again. They really should make those things bigger.

He stood up and wound his way to the bar, his swagger even more loose than usual. He got there at the same time as a woman, tall and curved. A man slurs out the question, and Crowley isn’t sure if it’s directed at him or the woman. Either way, the man is sleazy and drunk and rude and for all of those things, Crowley punished him. Even if it wasn’t directed at him, he did not want to hear it. With a flick of his fingers, the legs of the man’s stool gave out and he collapsed spectacularly onto the floor, his beer spilling over him. It was petty, and he knew it was petty, but he was drunk and he was a demon and he hated that question.

He leaves without his drink and sobers up before getting in the Bentley and driving off to his flat to the strains of Bohemian Rhapsody.


	3. 3: 2002

Speed dating was not one of Crowley's, but Hell thought it was. And he could see why. Forced social interaction with dozens of strangers, with the impossible intention to create meaningful relationships in less than five minutes? Diabolical. 

But he had lost the coin toss this time, so there he was, sitting at table number 4. 

He had already performed the miracle that Aziraphale had been tasked with, and was waiting to do a spot of demonic intervention. And he should have lurked in the shadows, watched from the darkness and acted properly demonic, but his curiosity had got the better of him. Curiosity always had been his downfall. So, he’d decided to see how bad this speed dating thing really was. So far, it was pretty terrible. Sitting at a table and men and women parading around, chatting inanely for a few minutes, and then leaving at the ring of a bell. It was certainly not for him. He had always preferred something slower. 

The host, an older man with grey peppering his beard, had given out little cards with ice breakers and chat up lines on them. Some of them were amusing enough, but most of them were just... bad. He’d sat through six so far, and here came number seven. She was tall and had her hair in an intircate braid and her heart in her eyes. She smiled as she sat down and Crowley almost felt sorry for her. Her desire for love shone out of her, edged with desperation. She held her card up.

“Did it hurt?” she asked, “when you fell from heaven?”

She was laughing a little, wanting him to laugh too at the ridiculousness of it. But he wasn't laughing. He sighed and with the rush of air sent out a curse that wrapped her in bad luck (not his best work, he’d admit, but it was fine. Hell wouldn’t know the difference, and he didn’t have the energy to care right now). 

Then he stood up and walked out, leaving her sitting at the table alone.


	4. 4: 2016

It was a party. They were both there, the angel and the demon. There were no specific miracles or interventions needed, but both of them were ‘fermenting’ in one way or the other. They came together, not because they had to, but because of habit and friendship, and well, it just felt right. 

It was fancy dress, and they had both considered raiding their wardrobes for some of their more classic outfits from their long, long time on earth, but in the end time gets away from them and they stop off at a shop on the way and buy a few things from the Halloween department. They could have maybe miracled themselves, but they were being careful at the moment. Aziraphale had received another note. 

Aziraphale started it. He bought a black headband with two plastic horns in bright red. He also purchased a small red pitch fork made from the same cheap plastic. They are tacky and ridiculous and he puts the headband on and held up the pitch fork with a delighted grin. 

It was a joke, and Crowley loved it. And he had always been indulgent, he had always gone along with the angel, so he picked a pair of white wings on a string of elastic and a headband of his own, mounted with a golden halo on a spring.

These accessories are the only concession they made to the idea of a costume.

They spent most of the night at each other’s side, drinking wine and eating hors d’ouevres. But Crowley wanted to dance. And Zira very much did not. He would rather watch. So, Crowley went out onto the dance floor alone and strutted his stuff.

He had completely forgotten about the wings and the halo.

And a man -the sort of man who believed the world owed him something, the sort of man who rarely took no for an answer, the sort of man who had a Tinder account with a list of people he would not date as the top line of his profile -wearing a costume that made him look like a genie coming out of a lamp (the lamp said ‘rub me’ on the side) came over to Crowley as he danced and pressed up behind him.

“Hey angel,” he said, his ‘lamp’ digging into Crowley’s lower back. “Did it hurt?” And Crowley can hear the smarmy smile in his voice, and he knows what's coming, he knows how that question finishes, but - “When you fell from Heaven?”

Crowley’s whole body went tense in a single instant and it’s not fair, he had been dancing, he had been enjoying himself, and he didn’t want to think about that- and then Aziraphale was there.

“There you are my dear." He put his hand gently on Crowley’s shoulder, guiding him away from the genie without even acknowledging his existence, “you really must try this wine, it’s exquisite.”

And they moved off the dance floor together, completely in step, and Crowley did not even notice as the genie tripped over thin air and fell face first- in a way that did not quite seem physically possible- into a bowl of punch on a table that had not been there mere seconds before.


	5. 5: 2019 (1)

It was the morning after the apocalypse. They had celebrated and recovered and they had just figured out the prophecy. 

“When alle is fayed and all is done, ye must choofe your faces wisely, for soon enouff ye will be playing with fyre.”

After the realisation -the spectre of death, real death, not discorporation, and the shock that they might survive this after all- there is a moment of silence.

Then:

“Did it hurt?” Aziraphle asked, his voice quiet and small. “When you fell?”  
“You’re not going to fall,” he replied instantly, his voice almost overlapping with Aziraphale’s. “Only God can make that happen and God isn’t dealing with this. If She was, it would have happened already. She’s staying well out of this, for whatever reason.” It wasn't the question Aziraphale had asked, but it was the answer he needed.   
“But...”  
“It’s going to be fine, angel. We’ll swap faces, and we’ll be fine.” And Crowley smiled, and after a moment, so did Aziraphale.


	6. +1 2019 (2) (Also known as Now)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And one time he answered.

They are lying on a tartan blanket in the park. There is a traditional wicker picnic basket beside them that earlier had been stuffed full, but now only held crumbs and dirtied plates. There are two glasses of a rare vintage wine standing miraculously steady on the sloped grass. There are ducks on the river nearby and it’s the sort of summer day that usually only exists in the most nostalgic of memories, softened and sweetened by the passage of time. The sun is shining, perfect little white puffs of cloud move slowly across the pure blue sky, a gentle breeze rustles the leaves of the nearby trees.

It is the kind of day where time itself seems to run syrupy and slow and all you want to do is lie somewhere soft with the person you love.

Aziraphale’s head is on Crowley’s shoulder, and their bodies are pressed together all along one side, warm and steady and real. They have been there for hours and will remain there for hours yet.

“It did hurt,” Crowley says, out of the blue. “Of course it did. It burned. But the worst thing was that feeling of, well, of being a disappointment. Of failure.” Aziraphale makes an encouraging hum. “I just wanted to _know._ I never meant...” he trails off.

After a moment, Aziraphale presses even closer. “I’m glad that your here,” he says, simply.

They sit there for a while, in the park, in the sun. It’s nice, and they are together, and there is nothing else they need to do. Later, they will toss some bread to the ducks and drive back to the bookshop, but for now, they sit on a blanket in the sunshine.

And it is perfect.


End file.
